You Are Here.
This was the day of the year when spring became truly credible. —Thomas Merton, Feb. 17, 1966
This was the day, a shining day, dry and a bit breezy and a glossy blue sky, and we rode bikes
on the Columba Trail, my favorite patch, from Califon to Long Valley, then ate lunch outside beneath a warm (but not HOT) sun, sipped drinks. It was glorious, and exactly what we needed.
This semester has been all duty, grim, grim, grim, especially for B. This time has been a difficult season for us, and I have been so tired. Today was a dose of medicine, and I nudged us toward it.
The sun and the ride, and the broken-down cars just past Middle Valley, my favorite collection of rusted-out junkers, the view of the stone footbridge spanning the Raritan, the horses nodding as we passed.... I LIVE here. I am fortunate, I am rich beyond measure.
The flowering trees spilled their blossoms, generous and flowing.
I am made especially grateful because of contrast: Joy needs sorrow and vice versa; same goes for hope and fear. Deirdre is dying, and I pray for a happy death. I can just open my hands, spread my fingers wide, and beg for that.Happy + death seems nonsensical, but I know that she holds to this hope in her cancer-wracked bones. Sr. Thea Bowman, give this to Deirdre.